When all is said and done
by hobgoblin123
Summary: Sick and tired of dealing with two stubborn mortals trapped in a state of denial, Karril makes a last attempt at matchmaking. Set straight after the 'youth' takes his leave on Black Ridge Pass. Slash. Might do the 'M' rating justice in one of the later chapters.
1. Chapter 1

**When all is said and done**

Disclaimer: I don't own the Coldfire Trilogy and no profit whatsoever is intended.

Credits: the bit about the 'far gentler afterlife than I'll ever know' was taken from the prologue of Black Sun Rising.

A/N 1: I know that we had Damien receiving a letter from Gerald after his 'death' at least once before ('Forever, Tarrant' by RinsHaruka). Haven't checked it due to a lack of time, but I hope that my plot is sufficiently different to spare me being flamed. Eventual similarities are entirely coincidental. Anyway, composing the Hunter's epistle was quite a task. At first, I considered to save myself the effort for fear of getting too much out of character and concentrate on Vryce's reaction to his read instead, but decided against being a coward in the end ;-) A man in contemplation of death and damnation is entitled to a whiff of emotion, isn't he?

A/N 2: As this story keeps meandering along, I decided to split it into several rather short chapters (might amount to four or five with a total of 10 000 words in the end). It's nothing spectacular but just a little yarn to get us through the summer slump, lol.

Greetings to Silvereyedbitch, Shadowy Star, Morgana, Herdcat, Puffskien and all ye Coldfire fans who're hopefully still somewhere out there. Enjoy what's left of the summer!

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I can't believe that you're letting him go just like this."

When Damien whirled around with a start, his eyes fell on a tourist in a garish shirt and no less tasteless trousers. The miffed face was utterly unfamiliar, but there was no mistaking the deep, booming voice that had guided him to hell and back. "Karril! Is it really you?" he blurted out, somewhat taken aback by the Iezu's unexpected appearance. Admittedly, Black Ridge Pass wasn't far from the half-alien's birthplace, but as he hadn't seen hide nor hair of him in the many weeks that had passed since Tarrant's supposed death at the hands of his last living descendant, he had half expected never to come across the adept's old sidekick again.

"The very same, priest. I thought it wise to come here incognito, as you humans are wont to say. To avoid certain... inconveniences. And as it seems, I've arrived just in time to prevent you from making a serious mistake."

"What the heck are you talking about?"

The Iezu shot him an exasperated look. "Gerald and I have always appreciated your intelligence. This isn't the appropriate time and occasion to prove us wrong.

Registering the baffled expression on his face, Karril heaved a sigh. "I'll never understand why you mortals stubbornly insist on denying the obvious," he muttered under his breath. "But never mind. Fortunately, I'm here to give you a nudge in the right direction. It might interest you to hear that your 'spoiled brat' won't stay around much longer after finally dredging up the courage to seek you out. As far as I know, he's planning to travel to Jaggonath at the soonest, but it will be just a short stopover before he sets out for distant shores. If you don't act now, you very likely won't get a second chance to set things straight."

The warrior knight forced a noncommittal shrug. "I've no right to interfere in the life of a complete stranger who isn't in the least interested in my company. And why should he give a damn? If he's truly the man I suppose him to be, all is said and done, anyway."

"I think there you're very much mistaken, Damien. The really important things were left unsaid, just as in your relationship with the Hunter. You and Gerald Tarrant did a lot of talking alright. Too much if you ask me, wasting your energy on bickering and bitching about trifles when you should have been all over each other long ago. At least since the breaking of the compact rendered it possible."

"But you've gotten it all wrong," Vryce protested, his cheeks flaming with embarrassment, "He and I... we never... we weren't..."

The God of Pleasure snorted. "Kindly don't take me for a fool. I know that you weren't lovers. Not in the conventional sense of the word, anyway. But trust me that if Gerald hadn't been to proud for his own good, he would have been on his back with his long legs wrapped around you before you could have done so much as blink. Not that he ever confided into me. Baring his heart simply wasn't his style."

"You have to be kidding, Karril! Tarrant was married, sired three children in his early mortal days, let alone that he hunted only delicate female beauties for his menu! When I arrived in Jaggonath, tavern rumours had it that the Lord of the Forest must have been a man once, with some sort of male hunger still clinging to his corrupted soul. How could someone like him have got the hots for another guy?"

"Because he's always preferred to 'keep his options open', another one of your human euphemisms. I could tell you a thing or two about him and Gannon that would make your ears burn."

" _King_ Gannon? The founder of my Order? What the hell does he have to do with it?"

"Everything, priest. I presume you won't find this piece of information in your church archives, but Gerald's services went far beyond the usual duties of a courtier. He was barely fifteen when his king took him to his bed, and they stayed lovers right until the bitter end. It was said that Gannon was crazy about his dashing Knight of the Realm, never got over losing him. But that's not the point now. I've come here because I want to give you something you might find useful. Before the Hunter departed on his fateful trip to Mount Shaitan, he deposited a letter at my temple. For you, in case you managed to outlive him."

"A _letter_? The delivery took you quite a while, I dare say. Why didn't you cough up the vulking thing earlier?"

"Didn't you listen to me?" Karril snapped in a huff. "You were meant to receive it if the worst came to the worst. Naturally, the change in circumstances required some adjustments. Like pretending that I had burned the papers when they weren't needed any longer, as I was supposed to do."

"But you didn't. Why?"

The God of Pleasure pulled a face . "Frankly spoken, I'm getting a bit tired of acting the matchmaker for two stubborn humans, so regard it as my last attempt to hammer some sense into your head. In the purely hypothetical case that something of Tarrant had survived, he wouldn't be pleased about my breach of trust for sure. For understandable reasons, I'm not altogether keen on landing myself on a blacklist of Iezu to be done away with, but feeding on your pleasure when you will be getting down to business at long last might even be worth it. The release of all that repressed sexual tension should be spectacular."

"Karril, I... it rarely happens, but I don't know what to say."

"The time for talk is over, Damien. Just read the letter with an open mind, draw your own conclusions and act upon them wisely. That's the only piece of advice I can give you. And now I'm off. My sibling Saris is waiting for me."

An envelope the colour of fresh cream was pressed into his sword hand, and the very next moment the Iezu was gone without leaving a trace of his existence behind.

His thoughts racing, Vryce stared down on the deceptively innocuous piece of not paper that could turn his entire world up and down once again. A part of him still couldn't quite believe what he had just been told. It was ludicrous. Utterly absurd. In the roundabout twenty-six months they had travelled all over their planet together, nothing whatsoever in the adept's behaviour had indicated that his human companion had been more to him than a brother-in-arms. A reluctant friend at the very most.

 _How very surprising_ , the little devil inside his head piped up sarcastically. _Granted that this isn't a bad joke at your expense: what do you expect from the proudest bastard you've ever met, somebody who elevated self-control to an art form ages ago? 'Accidental' touches and furtive glances in the direction of a man who had sworn to kill him? Don't be ridiculous, Damien!_

And even if Tarrant had tried to hit on him, he in all probability wouldn't have noticed. Or chosen not to notice, to be precise. So many things had been on his mind back then: the death of his comrades, putting an end to the threat to mankind, coming to terms with the vast gap between the ideals of his Church and the bare necessities of survival. He certainly could have done without any more complications in his life.

He didn't need them now, either. The _youth's_ veiled confession that Tarrant hadn't died on that fateful day at the keep had rescued him from his own personal hell of shame, guilt and sorrow. He was free at last, could go where his feet would carry him and start all over again, whether as a healer, a bodyguard for any moneybags or something else entirely. He only had to tear the adept's last message into tiny little pieces and move on without looking back, just the way the man himself had done a few minutes ago. But he couldn't. He just couldn't.

His shaking fingers opened the envelope as if on their own account. The first document he pulled out was a cheque, cashable at the Great Eastern Bank in Jaggonath. The inserted amount was simply breathtaking. He had always known that the Hunter had money. Vulking hell, the son of a bitch had had centuries to have his bucks working for him, but this surpassed everything he could have imagined in his wildest dreams. And it was just the beginning. What followed were the rights to a round dozen patents Tarrant had been owning, shares in several flourishing companies, plots of land all over the country and a town villa in Jaggonath and Merentha respectively. Even by conservative estimates, Damien guessed that the total value must run into the millions. Accepting this strange inheritance, not that he had any intention whatsoever of actually doing so, would rank him among the richest men on both the eastern and the western continent.

Eventually, he unfolded the actual letter. As his gaze fell on the swirling but perfectly neat handwriting he remembered so well, he counted his blessings that the adept had finally deigned to let him in on his latest prank. Even so, he could hardly breathe past the growing lump in his throat.

 _ **'**_ _Dear Vryce,_  
 _however miserably pathetic this introduction might sound, I'll be dead by the time you read this. I'd rather not wallow in untoward sentimentality henceforth, a lamentably common human weakness. Nonetheless, I'd like to express my deepest gratitude to you. You're a formidable warrior and a great man, loyal, courageous and honourable to your very bones. Your unwavering support - albeit garnished with an abundance of colourful metaphors I could have done without - was inestimable throughout our  
travels._  
 _For all the atrocities I committed on you I can only ask your forgiveness. What I relished at first soon became a mere imperative, forced upon me by my demonic nature. My hunger. Towards the end of our acquaintance, I would have gone to almost any length to avoid hurting you, would have risked my life, if it can be called thus at all, in order to protect you. I, who isn't called the Darkest Prince of Hell for nothing. If I had still a modicum of humour left inside me, I would laugh at the utter absurdity of  
it all._  
 _Now you certainly want to know why the notion of you coming to harm is anathema to me. The answer is relatively simple and presumably as old as the human race: I hold you in very high esteem, Damien. Not just because of the above mentioned character traits. Valour and honour are doubtlessly valuable assets, but so is handsomeness. Writing eulogies about the flecks of gold in your hazel eyes and the appeal of your muscular body is far beyond me, I'm afraid, but know that I reckon you among the most aesthetically pleasing human beings of either sex I've ever met. One of the few things I truly regret is that the compact didn't allow for broadening your horizon in terms of sexual pleasure. You might have found the experience rather... enlightening._  
 _The only thing left to me now is wishing you well wherever you go. Don't waste your time with mourning and live your life to the fullest, even if this means spending a considerable amount of money on indulging your helper syndrome. It goes without saying that you needn't worry about the origin of the wealth I've chosen to bequeath on you. It isn't blood money but honestly earned, the fruits of centuries of trading and well-conceived investment strategies._  
 _Platitudes like 'don't forget me' and similar crudities aren't my cup of tee, as you very well know. In fact, I very much doubt that you could even if you wanted to. The only thing I'm asking of you is that you'll pray for my salvation. Where I'm bound to go, I'm going to need every intercession I can possibly get. And who could be more suited to plead with God for me than a priest? For this is what you are and will always be. If you don't trust the opinion of the Hunter in matters of religion, keep in mind that the very man was once the Prophet of the Law and Knight Premier of your Order._  
 _The dusk draws near, my last journey following in her wake. Farewell, my friend. May you go to a far gentler afterlife than I'll ever know when your time comes. Yours,_  
 _Gerald Tarrant, the first and only Neocount of Merentha'_

Only when his tears started to drip onto the costly vat not paper Damien realized that he was crying. Almighty God in Heaven, whatever he had expected hadn't prepared him for this reading. He wasn't quite sure what shocked him most: that the adept had openly admitted their fire-forged friendship, his apologies for feeding on him, the sincere affection shining through every line or the fact that Karril had assessed the situation correctly. Tarrant had evidently not just deeply cared about him, nothing short of a miracle in its own right, but had also felt physically attracted to him. Had desired him. His words left no doubt about it. It just remained to be seen how much of those longings had withstood the transformation into his new self. And, even more important, whether Damien Kilcannon Vryce truly wanted to figure this out.

There was no denying that Gerald had grown on him over the last years. He had grieved for him as he had never grieved before, had even missed the son of a bitch's insufferable arrogance and condescension, not to mention his considerably more amusing vanity. And yes, there had been certain wet dreams involving caressing skin so very pale that it had seemed almost translucent in the moonlight, nocturnal spawns of his subconscious mind which had taken him to the brink of orgasm and beyond more than once. Having it off with another man in reality was undiscovered and slightly forbidding territory, but providing that the former Hunter was still interested in taking their relationship to a new level, it might be worth giving it a try.

But what would happen afterwards? Would Gerald stay or push ahead with his travelling plans, leaving him high and dry again? He had lost the vulking bastard once already. Twice, the present day included. He wasn't entirely sure whether he could bear it for a third time.

And there was more to it than that. The adept had left no doubt about it that any connection to his past life whatsoever would endanger his continuing existence. Hence, seeking out his erstwhile ally on Black Ridge Pass had been a chancy business at best, and it was no wonder that it had taken him some time to get up the nerve to put his life on the line once again. Whether his deeply ingrained sense of honour had dictated his actions or he had been motivated by more tender feelings Damien couldn't even begin to fathom. Anyway, it wouldn't change the fact that a single lapse of the tongue might very well spell disaster, a somewhat daunting prospect, as far as he was concerned.

Somehow, the whole situation was bordering on the surrealistic. Not so very long ago, he would have gladly rammed his sword through the Hunter's black heart and be done with it. One abomination less roaming through the darkness in its never-ending search for human prey. But Gerald wasn't undead any longer but a mortal with a beating heart and red blood running in his veins, a man just like any other. And he had suffered enough. Against all odds, he had survived the wrath of hell unleashed, battling a sadistic Iezu and a full-blown crusade intent on nailing his hide to the barn door, but it had cost him dearly. He deserved a fresh start, a new beginning without fear that a wrong word might be his undoing.

It was a hell of a choice. Never to see him again, dying one fine day without ever having known whether at least a modicum of the emotions so clearly evident in the letter had made it through Tarrant's final shape-shift was a gut-wrenching idea. That particular missed opportunity would certainly get a place of honour on his already long lists of regrets. But however painful his sacrifice might be, it was considerably less gruesome than some of the alternatives, namely witnessing the adept crumbling into dust or whatever ghastly fate was awaiting him in case of a violation of his latest compact. Being the final nail in Gerald's coffin just because he couldn't bring his damned hormones under control didn't even bear contemplating.

His mind made up, Damien gazed at the burning Forest for one last time. "Good-bye, my friend," he whispered, mechanically wiping a tear from his face. "May you find a place in the new world you helped creating. And happiness." Then he turned round and headed for the least appealing of the three inns on the northern flank of the ridge.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two  
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A/N 1: Hi, Bookimp and Puffskien Overlord of Darkness! Thanks for following this story (and of course for putting it on your 'favourites' list, Puffskien). I hope you'll like the next chapter. The third is already in the making.

A/N 2: Of course I don't have a clue whether it's true, but I've just presumed that there are madhouses and straitjackets on Erna...

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Used to camping out in the open, Damien hadn't bothered to rent a room. Not because he had run out of money. There was still a pretty penny left of the late Patriarch's allowance, and the bounty on the demons he had shot on Black Ridge Pass wasn't to be scoffed at, either. But after spending the days among whole throngs of noisily chattering people, he could very well do without listening to their drunken caterwauling all night long. He preferred to sit quietly in front of his tent with a bottle of ale in his hands, staring up at the multitudes of stars in the skies high above him so eerily reminiscent of a pair of glittering silver eyes that would never shine for him again until the imbibed alcohol finally allowed him to fall into a fitful sleep. He could only hope that the dreams about a severed head held up in triumph by blood-matted strands of golden hair would release their hold over him now that he knew Tarrant hadn't really perished during the crusade against the Forbidden Forest and its unholy denizens. A few more repetitions of those nightmares not an inch less gruesome than anything the Hunter could have conceived at his worst, and he would be ripe for an involuntary vacation in the nearest madhouse, nicely tied up in a vulking straitjacket.

The warrior knight sighed softly. Karril had leaked that his friend for many centuries intended to travel to Jaggonath and from there to God knew where, and he had no reason to doubt his words. True to his aspect, the Iezu might be a promiscuous, immoral hedonist at its finest and his kind only half human, the other half an utterly alien creature from the depths of space, but he wasn't irrational. With regard to the time span it had taken him to surrender the documents he should have burned to ashes weeks ago, betraying Gerald's trust couldn't have come easily to him. But yet he had brought himself to do exactly that in the end, risking whatever was left of their friendship for the sake of a last desperate attempt to hook them up with each other.

Try as he might, Damien couldn't fathom what kind of appeal their union might have for a deity with hundreds of lecherous followers who were more than willing to feed him their pleasure in exchange for an enhancement of their sensations. Quite apart from the fact that it would be outright absurd to apply such a label to their complicated relationship, the idea of soul mates and so called 'missing halves' certainly had to be far beyond a creature like Karril.

Anyway, he couldn't help but feeling slightly guilty for using this particular piece of information in a way that was in stark contrast to the Iezu's intentions. As crossing the flaming hell that had been his domain once was out of the question, Gerald would have to skirt it, very likely taking the more comfortable eastern route via Yamas, Sheva and Mordreth. Therefore, he himself would go straight westwards, across the passes of the Northern Divider Mountains. But wherever his road might take him, he needed to buy provisions and a horse first.

The Mount Shaitan Inn was but a a ramshackle hut without running water or any other comfort, but offered a small store where the more enterprising tourists could spend their hard-earned bucks on all sorts of stuff from hiking boots, sleeping bags and dried meat to tacky souvenirs. Along with the adjacent livery stable, it was a veritable gold mine for its owner, but definitely not the kind of place someone as sophisticated as the adept would care to frequent. In other words: it was perfect for his purposes. Or so he thought.

After the fresh breeze blowing higher up the pass, the stench of stale beer, pipe tobacco and sweat mingling with the ever-present aroma of sawdust hit him like a blow. If the air of utter neglect hovering over the place was anything to go by, a lot of the deplorable customers would be down with food poisoning ere the week was much older, not exactly what he'd call an incentive to buy. But when his eyes finally adjusted to the dim illumination in the guest room and he spotted who of all people was occupying a chair close to the only window, he wasn't in the least interested in the quality of the available goods anymore. Crap!

For a second the warrior knight came close to pivoting on his heels and to hell with his shopping expedition. He still possessed his tent, two healthy legs and a spring-bolt for hunting and warding off every demonling who was foolish enough to attack him. Compared to what he had endured in the lands of the Undying Prince and aboard the miserable crates that had carried them across Novatlantis, traversing the Dividers on foot would be a piece of cake. But something rooted him to the spot, and it wasn't physical attraction or even the warm glow of friendship. Not by a long shot.

Maybe his reaction wasn't altogether fair. Whatever his motives, at least Gerald had cared enough to approach him in spite of the danger. On a more mundane level, the bits of ash and soot in the air made everybody around thirsty, something the four inn keepers in the area could testify to very much to their delight. But all he could see for the time being was that the man had lost no time in ordering a carafe of red wine and changing into an emerald green silk shirt with a narrow band of gold thread embroidery around the neckline and flowing cuffs, worn under a matching velvet cloak that must have cost more than a humble craftsman could have earned in months.

Damien's hands balled into white-knuckled fists, his finger nails digging deeply into his palms. While he had wrestled with his conscience, had worried himself sick about the possible consequences of his actions, the adept obviously hadn't got anything better to do than parading a new set of fancy clothes and treating himself to what was surely the most expensive booze to be had within a radius of a hundred miles. Beholding him thus, so relaxed and utterly untouched by the troubles weighing on his own soul, leisurely swirling and sipping his drink, simply proved too much. All of a sudden, a veritable maelstrom of feelings he had refused to acknowledge so far boiled to the surface with a vengeance.

Overtaken by the events, he had lacked the time to reflect on the revelations sprung upon him, but fact was that thrice damned Gerald Tarrant had used him once again. Determined to stage his own death, he had sent his by now redundant ally away on a pretext, had very likely even used the channel to instil the notion that Andrys killing him was justice being done into his defenceless mind, thereby condemning him to weeks of living purgatory. Damn him!

Rage coursing through his veins like wildfire, he crossed the distance in five long strides and tossed the documents onto the rickety table, missing the carafe by a very narrow margin. "It seems that we've still got unfinished business, stranger. I'd very much like to hear what you've got to say about this."

Dark, fathomless eyes fixed on him, but there was no warmth in them, no sign of recognition. "And what is 'this', if I may ask?"

 _As if you didn't know_ was trembling on the tip of his tongue, but he managed to contain himself, if only just. "It's a letter from the Hunter," he forced out between gritted teeth instead. "It seems that there's no end to the surprises today."

"How fascinating, Vryce. Perhaps you should try to sell it to a museum or a private collector. It might fetch you a considerable sum."

The slightly husky voice was calm and controlled, the comely face the very picture of polite attention, but Damien thought he could detect a hint of a blush on cheekbones to die for. This alone kept him from closing his fingers around the insufferable bastard's neck. "I'm not interested in selling the vulking thing to anybody, as you might be able to imagine," he growled. "I just thought you could... help me at making sense of it, somehow."

A black, elegantly arched eyebrow shot upwards. "I can't imagine why. The writings of a dead man have no bearing on me. But as I presumably won't get you off my back unless I satisfy your curiosity, I'm willing to indulge you. Don't expect too much, though."

Skimming over the papers didn't take the adept more than a minute. And why should it? Blessed with a brilliant brain, he in all probability still knew each and every word by heart. But the pretence had to be kept up, nonetheless, a sore reminder of the risks involved. "Naturally, I can't speak for Gerald Tarrant," he said at long last, "but composing this sorry effort, he must have been half-crazed with terror. The fear of death and consequent damnation to hell certainly was addling his mind at the time, or he wouldn't have penned such sentimental nonsense."

"Of course he was scared stiff. So what? God is my witness that the Hunter had many faults, but babbling nonsense wasn't among them, no matter how terrified or hurt he was. I'd rather you didn't talk about him like that," Damien objected hotly. "In my book, he meant business, wanted to get everything off his chest before death took him. That's only natural. Human."

"Just so. But isn't it true that he wasn't mortal then but a monster, an undead abomination living on the vital energy of man? You himself vowed to rid Erna of his taint once."

"Yeah, and if Tarrant were still alive, he would never live me let it down, I suppose. But his soul was still human, however corrupted, was capable of feeling regret, compassion and even affection towards the end. He's dead and gone now and our conversation just idle banter. But just for the fun of it let's pretend for a moment that he really faked his execution as you've suggested in you little 'exercise for the mind'. His appearance might have been altered beyond recognition, but his core survived the sacrifice of his identity unscathed. Just hypothetically speaking, of course. Wouldn't it be reasonable then to assume that his emotional life stayed pretty much intact, his _longings_ included?"

Silk-clad shoulders rose in a half shrug, a minimal, hauntingly familiar gesture. "That's a moot point, Vryce. Even if it were so, his latest compact would bar him from ever acting out his... amorous intentions. Losing control in the heat of passion is too great a risk to take. You certainly understand this, don't you?"

For a split second slender fingers touched the back of his hand as light as a feather and the dark eyes softened, filled with regret and an emotion Damien couldn't quite put a name on. "It's beyond all question that you're entitled to believe whatever you want to," the adept whispered, "but you'd better remember that many things have changed since this was written. It's a different world, with different rules. In one respect the Hunter was right, though. You shouldn't waste your time on grieving about what cannot be undone anymore. Come to terms with the past eventually and move on with your life. Your friend wouldn't want you to squander the manifold talents God has given you. That said..."

The 'youth' who wasn't young by any stretch of the word rose in a fluent, effortless motion, the embroidered vines on his garments rippling like a living thing in the lamplight. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to take my leave. The owner of this miserable place has agreed on relinquishing one of his doubtlessly no less wanting bunch of old nags to me. For an exorbitant price, I'm afraid. Good-bye once more, Vryce. Don't get me wrong, but I deem it best that our paths won't cross again."

Literally incapable of forcing a single word through his constricted throat, Damien watched him crossing the room with the consummate grace of an uncat. His fingers already on the door latch, the adept suddenly turned round and looked him square in the face, his lips curled into a sardonic smile. "If I were you, I wouldn't worry too much about the enclosures you received along with the letter but make good use of them. Even if a part of Gerald Tarrant had survived as we've discussed ad nauseam, he wouldn't be forced to go about in rags. But just in case you meet a certain bothersome, meddling Iezu, tell him that the last word hasn't yet been spoken about the matter. That's as sure as day follows night."

The man who had been the Hunter in another time, another era bowed ever so slightly. Then he was gone like the wind carrying the death throes of his former stronghold, leaving Damien to his dark thoughts.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter three**

A/N 1: Many thanks for reviewing, Herdcat! It's good to know that at least a few of you read my humble efforts. As I've pointed out in my summary, the story will eventually stray into 'M' territory, but this chapter is still a lemon free zone, lol.

A/N 2: 'All in a day's work' is a quote from Black Sun Rising, page 312

A/N 3: Good heavens, I'm so glad that this site is working again after being down for almost 30 hours. Having a whole day for myself for the first time in ages just to be unable to work on my stories almost drove me to distraction. Well, I suppose I'm not the only one affected by it, so I should stop whining, lol.

A/N 4: As the wonderful Ms Friedman stuck to 'wolves', I decided to use the plain 'cows' as well instead of adding a prefix like 'nu' or 'un'. I hope you don't mind...

A/N 5: Somehow, Gerald saying that only his pride and his shirt was hurt sounds awfully familiar. If a fellow author has used it before, I apologize for 'stealing' it. Just pm me, and it will be changed.

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Unsettling close to throwing a tantrum out of sheer frustration, the warrior knight buried his face in his hands. Dear God Almighty, for the life of him he didn't know what to make of their conversation. At first, it had seemed that Tarrant's new incarnation wasn't giving a shit for him, but now he wasn't so sure anymore. True to his nature - and allowing for the demands of his latest compact - the adept hadn't admitted anything. Not openly, anyway. But the slight tremor that had passed through him when he had touched his hand, the way he had looked at him if only for a short moment that had passed much too soon, his jet black eyes so wide and honest and utterly human, had told a different tale. At least he hoped that the emotions he had believed to detect in them weren't just a figment of his wishful thinking. But be that as it may, Gerald had made himself rather clear that he wasn't in the least inclined to take chances, however great the temptation might be. Not altogether surprising for a man who had always put mind over matter.

The scratching of chair legs on wooden floorboards brought him back to the here and now. His thoughts miles away, he hadn't paid any attention whatsoever to his surroundings, but now he noticed for the first time that he wasn't the only customer in the guest room. A company of four, each of them armed to the teeth and reeking of a nauseating mixture of sweat and the worst kind of gut rot, was just about leaving the premises. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but there was something about them that made his skin crawl.

It wasn't their even for a place like Black Ridge Pass somewhat exaggerated armament or their drinking habits. A lot of the tourists around were spending their days with boozing themselves half out of their mind, and even nigh to two months after the combined sacrifices of Tarrant and the Patriarch had changed the face of their planet forever, one was still well advised to stay on guard against the faeborn preying on the living just as they had been doing since the colonists had set foot on Erna and the chimeras of their subconscious had spawned the first demonlings . But if his toils and troubles had taught him one thing, it was knowledge of human nature, and he'd have to be blind not to notice the almost palpable aura of violence radiating from them. Whoever these nasty fellows were, he could tell a mile off that they certainly weren't here just to see the Forest burn and shoot the occasional demonling.

Damien called himself to order. He might not like the looks of them, the brutality carved into their features and the manner their hands stayed close to their weapons all the time, but the men had done him no wrong, hadn't even taken notice of him. After everything he had been through, all the needless suffering and acts of utmost bestiality he had been forced to witness throughout his travels at the Hunter's side, it was no wonder that he was starting to imagine things. But yet his warrior instincts strictly cautioned him against letting the matter rest.

His nagging sense of unease increasing by the second, he jumped up and headed for the exit. If his vivid imagination was getting the better of him and caused him to make a complete and utter fool of himself, so be it. It wouldn't be the end of him. But he had always been well advised to trust his gut feeling, and he saw no reason for becoming careless in his middle years, all the more so when Gerald was out there, all alone and incapable of a Working save he sacrificed his life for it. Which would render the whole exercise rather pointless from his point of view.

He had just stepped over the threshold when two shots rang out from the direction of the livery stable, followed by a pained scream which threatened to freeze the marrow in his bones. Shit!

Vryce ran, his legs pumping as if he were eighteen again and not a man pushing his forties. The blood pounding in his ears, he almost tore the door off its hinges as he charged inside the ramshackle shed like a raging bull, much too agitated to waste a thought on the possible benefits of finding out how the land lied first.

Right next to the entrance the oldest of the thugs lay spread-eagled on the floor like a broken doll, shot straight through the head. Another one, a lad in his early twenties at most, writhed in agony a mere few feet away, clutching his throat as if he wanted to strangle himself. From the amount of blood pumping out in spurts from a wound at the curve of his neck, he wouldn't last much longer if first aid wasn't applied soon. But Damien had only eyes for the tangle of limbs engaged in mortal combat close to the stalls. "Let him go at once and put your hands up in the air, you bastards!" he thundered, his spring-bolt at the ready. "But be warned. Make a sudden move or just breathe in a way I don't like, and you'll buy a one-way ticket to hell. I'm not in the mood for putting up with any kind of bullshit."

Caught between two adversaries ready for anything and half of them already out of the game, the remaining scoundrels deemed it wise to make no resistance. As soon as they had released him and backed away from him, the adept got to his feet and picked up his gun. His shirt was torn and his braid in utter disarray, but otherwise he seemed perfectly unharmed, something Damien was deeply grateful for.

But his relief turned into outright alarm when the former Hunter raised his weapon and aimed directly at one of the men's heart, his eyes blazing with fury. "What the hell are you up to, Ger... stranger?" he blurted out.

"Killing them. What else?"

"Have you lost your wits? As much as I might want to give them a proper licking, there's no need for this. Let the police take care of them."

The adept snorted. "Don't be an idiot, Vryce. Have you seen a single officer on Black Ridge Pass in all the weeks you wasted your time on wallowing in self-pity? This is lawless territory, an outlaw's paradise if there's ever been one. I wouldn't be altogether surprised if the innkeeper was in league with them. After all, Mer Thackery sent me to the stables but failed to turn up for our appointment, a quite strange coincidence if you ask me. Be that as it may, I'm responsible for the deaths of two of their comrades, and I'm not in the least keen on having the rest of the lot breathe down my neck, thirsting for revenge."

Automatically his gaze strayed to the fallen men. The scruffy fellow in his late fifties must have been dead right away. The entrance wound in his forehead looked comparatively harmless, but with regard to the brain matter and bone fragments splattered all over the straw in the closer vicinity he was quite glad that he was being spared the sight of the back of his head. It surely couldn't be pleasant.

The youth had become frightening still, as well. Frowning, Damien knelt down at his side and searched for his pulse, but found none. Damn! If he wasn't completely mistaken, the bullet had missed the carotid artery and nicked his left jugular vein instead. A few months ago, Healing him wouldn't have posed much of a problem. Vulking hell, even after the taming of the fae the lad might have still been savable if the bleeding had been staunched in time. But occupied with mitigating the situation before something irreparable happened, said time was a luxury he hadn't had.

The warrior knight stifled a sigh. Those blue eyes staring blindly at the ceiling beams might haunt him in many a night to come, but for the time being he had more pressing matters at hand. Analysing the situation without bothering about trifles like scruples and ethical subtleties, his former brother-in-arms certainly had a point there. Although he had been lost in his own world of guilt and shame since Tarrant's supposed death at the hands of his last living descendant, he had heard rumours about several tourists vanishing from the area without a trace. At the time, he hadn't thought much of it. People came and went, changed their plans without informing anybody about it in utter disregard of the innkeepers' well-meant advice to leave at least a short notice about their intended hiking routes. Maybe a part of those unfortunate souls were rotting in one of the deep crevasses in the area now, not victims of an unfortunate accident or a horde of starving demonlings but robbed and killed by the very men standing right before him.

Turning the bastards loose as if nothing had happened, he would be responsible for each and every crime they committed henceforth, not exactly a comforting thought. In allying with a creature considered evil incarnate by his Church and saving the man's hide again and again instead of ridding Erna of his taint as he had vowed what felt like an eternity ago, he had already burdened himself with more guilt than his tender conscience could stomach. Adding just another shortfall to his anyway long list of transgressions was something he could surely do very well without.

If it hadn't been for Gerald or whatever his name was now, he wouldn't have thought twice about fulfilling his civic duties in form of handing the thugs over to the next available authorities in person . After losing his vocation and everything dear to him, the only thing he had in abundance was leisure. From what he had seen of the cities of the north, they weren't exactly what he'd call the epitome of law and order, to put it mildly, but a well populated place like Sheva or Mordreth certainly possessed a, however humble, town jail. Maybe there was even a price on their heads. Becoming a bounty hunter wasn't a career option he had considered so far, but if their capture fetched him a nice reward, he would have to be stark mad to look the gift horse in the mouth.

Unfortunately this was nothing but pure theory. What had come to pass that day proved once again that the adept had an uncanny knack for stumbling from one calamity into another. In other words, looking after him was worse than herding uncats, a fact that even death, resurrection and the transformation into a 'spoiled brat' who apparently hadn't done anything in his entire life save squandering daddy's fortune hadn't changed for the better. In fact, the latter only served to make things worse. A lot worse. Gerald's new self had 'easy prey' written all over it in golden, ten feet tall tall letters, a mouth-watering temptation for every rogue from here to Jaggonath. Of course the impression was somewhat deceiving, as the men who had paid a high price for their error of judgement today could testify to, but the time when he could have killed an adversary with a mere thought were long gone. One day he would take one chance too many, and Damien had no intention whatsoever of letting him rush headlong into disaster. If the stubborn son of a bitch was still reluctant to accept his escort in spite of the recent events, he would follow him like a shadow until they were back in more civilized surroundings, no matter what.

Acting as the adept's self-proclaimed bodyguard and at the same time shepherding a bunch of outlaws around was mutually exclusive even for a tried and tested warrior, though. Utterly at loss what to do, Vryce raked his greying hair. Under the given circumstances, there was something to be said for the final solution Gerald had suggested, however callous it might sound. The only problem was that underestimating their victim, the brutes hadn't bothered to draw their weapons, had relied on being able to overpower him by means of brutal physical force alone. As they weren't posing an immediate threat now, taking the law into their own hands would be nothing short of outright murder, an appalling crime in the eyes of God and anathema to everything he believed in. But it would keep the man he had come to cherish far beyond anything he would have thought possible in his wildest dreams safe.

For a moment Damien wavered, torn between his principles and the bare necessities of survival as so very often before. But then he remembered all the other times he had been forced to stand helplessly by when the Hunter had tortured and killed without showing a shred of remorse, vainly trying to assuage his pangs of conscience by telling himself that the end justified the means sometimes, and he couldn't bring himself to pull the trigger or even leave the building and thus giving Gerald free reign to do as he pleased. As far as he was concerned, the days for letting the laws of the jungle prevail over humanity were over.

His mind made up, he lowered his spring-bolt just by an inch and shot the miscreants a menacing glower. "I'll temper justice with mercy this once," he growled. "After you've handed over your firearms, you're free to go wherever you want. Take your fallen comrades with you and give them a decent burial. That's the least you can do for them. But let me warn you once more, Should you mess with my business ever again, I'll make you regret the day you were born. Understood?"

If the warrior knight had expected an outburst of thankfulness, he would have been disappointed. In stony silence the thugs tossed two rifles, three pistols and a crossbow onto the floor with an air of utter disdain, picked up the corpses and made for the exit. At the very last moment the older one, a brawny giant whose nigh to seven feet tall frame was wrapped in a calf-length wolf fur coat, turned around and measured him from top to toe, his green eyes smouldering with hatred.

A strange sense of foreboding prickled at the base of his spine, but before Damien could reconsider the wisdom of his decision the door thunked shut, and he was alone with the adept for the first time since they had met again on Black Ridge Pass. "Are you alright?" he asked quietly.

"I'm fine, Vryce. It's just my pride and my shirt that was hurt today."

"Thank God. When I heard the shots, I feared that those vulking bastards had been the end of you. Anyway, slowly but surely I'm getting a bit tired of calling you 'stranger'. As you know my name and fate has it that we bump into each other again and again, I think it's only fair that you tell me yours."

Noticing the hint of defiance passing over the comely features half hidden in the shadows, Damien feared that he had gone too far. But then something softened in the dark eyes, and the 'youth' bowed with a flourish. "Gerald Hawthorne, at your service. Although it seems that you were much more of service to me than vice versa. I owe you one."

"All in a day's work," Damien replied, remembering using the very same words in another place, another time. The world had been different then, the eyes watching him ever so calmly molten pools of silver instead of black, but the flicker of recognition flaring up in their depths and the fact that the adept was still using his old given name confirmed that not everything had been lost that fateful day at the keep.

A surge of emotion welled up in his heart, elation, affection, gratitude and fear of loss all bundled up in one mind-blowing package, and for a while he couldn't force a single word past the lump in his throat. "Don't take it the wrong way, Gerald," he muttered when he could finally trust his voice again, "but in a way it's no wonder that they chose to mug you of all people. Selling your fancy cloak alone would have brought them through the winter."

Hawthorne shuddered with revulsion. "They weren't after my money," he whispered. "Not in the first place, anyway. It was just an additional bonus."

It took him a few seconds to grasp the hidden meaning behind the quiet words, but when he had finally processed the implications of the statement, Damien balled his fists. "Whatever god they believe in may have mercy upon them when I get my hands on them," he spat viciously. "They won't like it, won't like it one bit. But the whole mess just proves my point. Times have changed. Just in case you've forgotten, let me remind you that a Working is out of the question if you aren't suicidal, something I'm not altogether sure about yet. You simply can't prance about on your own, dressed up to the nines and looking like a trousered version of 'Pretty Little Princess'. It will get you into trouble before you can say 'Amen'."

The youthful face hardened. "There's no need to lecture me about the nature of man. I know very well what makes such creatures tick, how they're turned on by their victim's vulnerability and utter helplessness. You should have humoured me when we had the chance. The world wouldn't have been poorer without that kind of scum."

"Agreed. But they aren't the only ones with somehow... unhealthy inclinations. As you've already pointed out, this isn't what I'd call the backbone of civilization. The sooner you get it into your stubborn head that you'll never make it back to the Serpent alive and in one piece without an escort, the better for both of us."

"So what do you suggest?"

"Accept my company," the warrior knight retorted quick as a shot. "For reasons I'd rather not discuss, I had planned on crossing the Northern Divider Mountains, but I'm not picky. Nobody's waiting for me, anyway."

"You can't be serious, Vryce."

"You bet I am!" Desperate to take his presumably last chance to get through to the adept, Damien stepped closer and rested his sword hand on a silk clad shoulder. "Listen, Gerald," he said, keeping his voice deliberately low. "I'd rather kill myself than hurting you. You know this, don't you? But if you're still afraid that I could say something untoward, I solemnly swear to keep my mouth shut throughout our journey except under the most dire circumstances. You can even gag me if it makes you feel better. But I won't have you travelling alone. Period. Shouldn't you come to your senses, I'm going to tie you up like a vulking postal parcel and transport you all the way back to Jaggonath across my saddle. That's my last word on the matter."

It seemed to him that Hawthorne smiled faintly. "I wouldn't put it beyond you. You're an obstinate, headstrong man with a lamentable tendency to pad your arguments with an abundance of dispensable sentiments. But although I'm loathe to admit it, there's a grain of truth to be found in them."

The adept squared his shoulders as if steeling himself for the metaphorical jump off the cliff. "All right, then," he sighed. "As I presumably won't get you off my back unless I knock you out, I give you permission to accompany me. As my bodyguard, on an arm's length basis and no strings attached. I'm offering the usual standard rate plus a ten percent bonus on our arrival, all expenses paid. What do you think about it?"

Vryce's face split into a broad grin. "It seems we have a deal, _boss_ ," he chuckled. "Don't let the term go to your head, though. But if you want to hire me, you should inform me about your itinerary. The Forest, or what's left of it by now, is out of bounds for us. Shall we take the eastern or the western route around?"

"Neither." Registering the baffled expression on his face, Hawthorne raised an eyebrow in sardonic amusement. "I don't doubt to whom you owe the information about my travelling plans. Intent on putting you onto me, Karril spoke nothing but the truth at that time, but my return to Jaggonath is anything but imperative. I've always wanted to visit the west, so if you don't mind, we could adhere to your original intentions and cross the Dividers. Do you possess some camping gear?"

"A two-person tent, a sleeping bag, some blankets and a stove. But we need to buy provisions and, last but not least, three unhorses. One for each of us and an additional pack animal. Equipping ourselves with warmer clothes wouldn't be a bad idea, either. It's getting quite late in the year for comfortable travel, and only God knows what kind of weather will await us high up in the mountains."

The adept handed him a heavy purse. "Purchase what you deem fit, Vryce. I don't exactly appreciate the idea of throwing my money at a wretched crook in the disguise of an inn keeper, but there seems to be no way around it. At least we don't have to worry about the horses breathing their last after a few miles. I managed to inspect them before my attention was, how shall I put it politely, diverted elsewhere, and they aren't half as bad as I had expected. It goes without saying that they can't hold a candle to the Hunter's breed, but they should get us across the passes of the Dividers alright."

"And have you already taken your pick?"

"The black stallion in the last stall on the right should do nicely. He's a fine specimen, strong, spirited and rather intelligent for one of his kind. For you, I'd suggest the grey mare over there. She won't let you down when the going gets tough."

Following his line of sight, Damien's gaze locked on what was surely one of the most striking creatures he had ever seen, be it man or beast. "God is my witness that she's a real beauty, Gerald," he exclaimed, "but there's no chance in hell that I could buy her. She'd fetch a high price anywhere, let alone in an area where disposable horses are about as common as a vulking snowstorm in midsummer."

"You needn't be concerned about the contents of your wallet or lack thereof, Vryce. She's yours if you want her."

"That's a hell of a gift for a hired hand, isn't it?"

Hawthorne shrugged. "Possibly. But I'd be delighted if you accepted it, nonetheless. As a... token of my esteem."

Noticing the slight catch in his voice, the warrior knight looked at him sharply. The finely-chiselled features were set into an expression of deliberate neutrality, gave nothing away, but as their gazes locked, there was no mistaking the emotional turmoil raging just under the serene veneer.

Drowning in those eyes as black as a winter night, he was only marginally aware that his arms came up and wrapped around a slender waist. Gerald made no attempt to free himself as he had half expected but yielded to his embrace with a low, wistful sigh that set his nerve endings on fire.

As if magnetically drawn to him, Damien bent closer, allowed his instincts to take over at long last without giving a damn for the possible consequences. The unmistakable scents of not sandalwood, musk and arousal engulfed him, went to his head like a heady wine, and all he could think of was pulling the object of his desire down onto the straw covered ground and celebrating their reunion in a way neither of them would ever forget.

Losing himself in the magic of the moment, he started to grind his hips against Hawthorne's abdomen in small, tantalizing circles. He was rock hard now, excited almost to the point of a spontaneous ejaculation, something that hadn't happened to him in ages. To his astonishment, the adept's pelvis jerked forward in response to his motions, met him hungrily and matched his rhythm with its own, and the world faded into non-existence.

For what felt like a small eternity there was no compact standing between them, no fear of being the death of the man he was caring deeply about with just a single wrong word. But all at once Gerald froze, disentangled himself from his arms with what sounded suspiciously like a muttered oath, and he came back down to earth with a bang.

"We mustn't, Vryce," Hawthorne whispered, his voice thick with regret. "As much as I wish otherwise, throwing all caution to the wind would be unwise in the extreme. You'd better leave now and do our shopping before something happens we both might regret later. If I have still time for harbouring regrets, that is. Get everything we need and meet me here again at sunrise."

"The hell I will," Damien growled. "I respect your decision although it's bloody hard for me, but there's no way that I'll let you out of my sight as long as those bastards are prowling around. As you seem to be the one with the better horse sense, you can negotiate the price with their owner while I keep my eyes open outside. Don't doubt that you'll have to pay through the nose for them. Afterwards, I'm going to accompany you to your lodgings. Not until you're safely back in your accommodation I'll take care of the rest of our equipment. Don't even bother to gainsay me."

"You'd better remember that I'm not a babe-in-arms," Hawthorne snapped irritably. "And that I got two of them before the pistol was knocked out of my hand."

"Yeah, and the remaining two almost made mincemeat out of you. Just face it, Gerald: You engaged me to look after you personal security, right? You might be the boss, but I'm the man in charge of keeping harm from having a closer look at you, a task I don't treat lightly. So either you're a good boy and play along, or we'll stand here and waste our breath on a fruitless debate until the cows come home. It's up to you."

The adept shot him a withering look that would have made any other man blanch with fear, but Damien refused to be intimidated and just stared back until some of the tension bled out of the lithe body in front of him. "As usual, your utterances suffer from a certain lack of accuracy," his former ally huffed haughtily. "There are no cows or any other live cattle on Black Ridge Pass, as you very well know. But that's not the point now. Although I find your patronizing attitude somewhat jarring, it won't hurt having it your way this once. Send in the proprietor, and I'll see to it that he won't short-change us."

Grinning inwardly, Vryce made for the door. Gerald was still quite a handful even on a good day, but he'd manage. He always had. At least they were together again and would be for many days to come. Nothing else mattered.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter four**

A/N : Sorry for the relatively late update. Having penned roundabout 10.000 words of my X-mas contribution so far, let alone getting my Halloween contribution for this year done, this story simply had to wait a bit. As it goes, I feel a bit awkward about gracing Gerald's attacker with an accent. This is always a tricky business, as far as I'm concerned, let alone if English isn't your native language. But I wanted this character to have a 'different voice', if you know what I mean, and this isn't easy to achieve for an unskilled author like me, either. To cut a long story short, I hope it wasn't done too badly and you'll enjoy the final chapter.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Three days later, they were already high up in the Northern Divider Mountains. The weather had been constantly deteriorating, and although it was still October, a heavy snowfall had set in a few hours ago. Damien gazed up at the darkening sky. Soon the veil of dusk would shroud the lands, and with regard to the low clouds hiding the mountaintops, promising even more precipitation, neither moon nor stars would cast their benign light upon them. They had to find a somewhat sheltered place before nightfall, or they would be in for a hard time. He hadn't survived so many catastrophes which should by all rights have killed him just to freeze to death on the snow-covered passes to his homeland.

But there was more to it than that. Since they had set off that morning, a nagging sense of unease had been growing inside him, and it didn't have anything to do with the weather, however bad it might be. He couldn't quite put a finger on it yet, but it felt as if unfriendly eyes were watching them, waiting for just the right moment for putting their evil intentions into practice. His warrior instincts on red alert, he had checked the immediate vicinity more than once, but had found nothing. Either he was imagining things, or whatever enemy having it in for them was a cunning tracker indeed. Both options weren't altogether reassuring, as far as he was concerned.

Gerald's behaviour wasn't exactly helpful to raise his flagging spirits, either. For the last few days, the adept had only talked to him when it had been absolutely unavoidable, confining himself to snapping orders and otherwise keeping a stony silence. All things considered, he really couldn't hold it against him. Living under the constant threat that a wrong word might be his undoing must be a heavy burden for a man who was fearing death more than anything else. But although the rational part of his brain could acknowledge the logic behind Hawthorne's utter reclusion, his fallible human heart begged to differ. Having him so close but yet forever out of his reach, listening to his quiet breathing at night when he himself was laying wide awake, staring into the darkness with burning eyes, was a torture no less heinous than anything the sadistic bastard Calesta could have devised for his benefit.

A trickle of ice water that had somehow made it past his woollen scarf and into his upturned collar brought him back to the here and now with a start. After wiping his numb face with his sleeve, he squinted out into the white hell whirling all around him. The snowflakes were falling so thick and fast now that he could barely see Gerald's back, let alone something resembling a decent path.

Vryce muttered a vicious oath under his breath. Freezing his butt off and the lack of conversation slowly but surely starting to grate on his already frayed nerves, he wouldn't have minded to get their ill-fated trip across the mountains over and done with. He'd never been a particularly great socializer, but a nice glass of rum toddy and a few friendly faces certainly had its appeal. At any rate, riding on in the rocky terrain abundant with deep ravines where no one would ever find their bleaching bones was tantamount to courting disaster. Other than chickening out and returning to Black Ridge Pass like two complete fools, the only way for them was up, and the conditions were bound to get worse with each metre in altitude they climbed. They needed to bivouac before things got truly nasty, plain and simple.

The warrior knight was just about opening his mouth for a yell when a blow to the side of his head struck him out of nowhere. Its impact knocked him straight off his horse and face first into the snow. For a few seconds the world went black. He wasn't fully unconscious, could feel something hot running down his scalp and hear the terrible death scream of a horse and the cries of men, but try as he might, he could neither move a limb nor see what the heck was going on. It wouldn't be pleasant for sure.

Something heavy crashed down at his side, and the sickening stench of booze and old sweat engulfed him like a poisonous cloud, making the bile rise in his throat. "It's no use fighting me, ye little slut," a hoarse voice he had never heard before sniggered maliciously. "Yer buddy's already on his way to hell and can't help ye anymore. Now I'm gonna teach you what a real man feels like. Be nice to me, and ye might even enjoy it."

The sound of tearing cloth rang through the crisp winter air like a gunshot, and then Hawthorne cried out, his light baritone rising to a high-pitched, wordless expression of terror that sent a cold shiver down Damien's spine. It worked a miracle on him. All at once, his vision cleared, and his treacherous body didn't refuse to do his bidding any longer. But in spite of being worried sick about his companion, he knew better than to jump into the fray head over heals the way he had done when those bastards had attacked Gerald in the stables. His groggy condition didn't allow for a mistake.

Ever so slowly as not to arise unwanted attention, he turned his head, and what he saw made his blood run cold with dread. The adept lay no more than a few feet away, his black leather pants dangling around his ankles and his briefs in tatters. His arms were pinned above his head by the younger one of the scoundrels from Black Ridge Pass, while the towering hulk who had shot Vryce such a hateful look crouched between his spread thighs, a depraved grin twisting his face into something straight out of the abysses wherein the nightmares dwell. "Ye killed me father an' brother, but I'm gonna make ye pay for it," he hissed. "When I'm through with ye, me friend Pete here will want his share. But don't ye worry. We won't finish ye off. Not right away, that is. With yer tent and provisions, we've got all night to play. Take this for a starter, luvvie."

Under Vryce's disbelieving gaze, the son of a bitch bared himself in utter disregard to the biting cold and thrust his hips forward with a snarl that would have made a starving demonling proud. Hawthorne screamed again as if he were back on the iron bars in the caves of the Lost Ones, roasting like a bloody suckling pig over the fire of the earth, and something inside the warrior knight snapped. To hell with battle strategies when Gerald was about getting violated!

Without even bothering to draw one of his weapons, he lunged at the would-be rapist and dragged him off his victim as if he weren't weighing more than a sack of feathers. Using the surprise effect to his advantage, he locked his legs around the giant's torso like a vice, immobilizing him with his own, still considerable bulk, grabbed his grimy head by the chin and back of the skull and gave a sudden, violent twist until he heard a cervical vertebra break with a satisfying snap.

When his opponent went limp in his deadly embrace, Damien dropped his corpse like a broken doll and focussed his attention on the second miscreant. His blue eyes wide with fear, the man let go of Hawthorne's wrists as if he had burned himself and tried to make a run for it, but it didn't do him any good. Vryce's spring-bolt was tied to his saddle and his sword useless for a long distance kill, but he still had the pistol Gerald had bought for him after a heated discussion about the pros and cons of firearms. For the first time ever, he was glad that he had caved in in the end. Overcome by a surge of naked bloodlust unlike anything he had ever felt before, he aimed carefully and fired, hitting his target square between the shoulder blades. The fellow collapsed into the snow with a gurgling moan, twitched a few times and drew a last rattling breath. Then everything went quiet.

As the fog of wrath clouding his brain finally lifted, Damien's gaze locked on his former brother-in-arms. The adept was still on his back, staring blindly at the rapidly darkening sky without stirring a limb, not even trying to cover himself up. His delicate face, no less white than the blanket of snow beneath him, was frozen into a grimace of horror Damien found more than just a bit alarming. His heart in his mouth, he knelt down at his side, pulled up Hawthorne's pants and gathered him in his arms without thinking twice. "Gerald, what's wrong with you?" he forced out between clenched teeth. "For God's sake, say something. You're scaring the shit out of me."

For a terrible minute there was no response, but at long last a hint of awareness returned to the dark eyes. "Vryce. You're hurt."

"It's just a scratch. Thank goodness the vulking bastards weren't better marksmen. An inch to the left, and I'd be done with. But what about you? Are you all right?"

"I'll survive," Hawthorne breathed. "The best I can say about this nasty business is that I've come out of it unscathed. At least on the outside. You stopped him at the very last moment. He wanted to... to..."

"I know what he was up to," the warrior knight retorted grimly. "May they both join their companions in hell for their deeds. And now forget about them. Can you get up?"

Gerald nodded. Pulling himself together, he managed to scramble to his feet, if with the aid of a steadying arm around his waist, but it soon became clear that they wouldn't get anywhere that day. Trembling in every limb, he could barely stand on his own, let alone traversing difficult terrain on foot, and as for himself, Damien could feel a major headache brewing. With their pack animal dead and the black stallion run off into the darkness, they had only his own mare at their disposal, not enough for carrying two grown men and their remaining equipment. It went without saying that their attackers had followed them on horseback, but only the Lord in His wisdom knew where they had hidden their mounts. In less than an hour, it would be pitch black, and even if he had been willing to leave Hawthorne alone, there was but a slim chance to find them in time. And what for? By now, the snowfall had slowed down to a few occasional flakes, but battling the icy passes of the Dividers at night would be sheer lunacy under the given circumstances.

Anyway, his healer persona couldn't answer for making Gerald go on. His pulse racing, the adept's skin was frighteningly clammy and pale, the tell-tale signs of a shock. Seeing him thus, shivering violently in spite of the two blankets Vryce had wrapped him in and his eyes in a faraway place, made the former priest wonder what the heck had gotten him into such a state. Of course being ambushed and almost raped was a somewhat unsettling experience, to say the least, but the man doubtlessly had had worse during the last years, for example a trip to hell and dying on the slopes of Mount Shaitan, just to mention a few of the misfortunes that had overtaken him when still the Hunter. But whatever had finally managed to shatter his usually so strict self-control, he needed rest and warmth and maybe a friendly shoulder to cry on instead of a nocturnal trek across the mountains.

After provisionally dressing his wound, the warrior knight set up camp at record speed. When Hawthorne was settled in the entrance of their tent, the blankets pulled up to his chin and a mug of tee in his still shaking hands, Damien cleared his throat. "We need to talk, Gerald," he muttered awkwardly. "I won't hide from you that we're in a tight spot. There isn't enough dry fire wood around, and the temperature is still falling. If we want to make it through the night, we'll have to change our, well, sleeping arrangements, keep each other warm. That includes ridding ourselves of our wet clothes. Whatever fancy garb you might have stuffed into your saddlebags disappeared along with your horse, and I can't offer more than some underwear and a spare pair of woollen socks. It won't do to worry about our modesty, just to awake as frozen corpses in the morning, will it? But don't fret. I solemnly swear to keep my hands to harmless territories, as hard as it might come to me," he quipped in a feeble attempt to lighten the mood.

It was difficult to see in the light of their small fire, but it seemed to him that the adept smiled faintly. "Closing one's ears to the voice of reason would be indeed futile in the extreme. Do what you think best, Vryce. I trust you with my life. And how could I not? If you hadn't been there today, they would have raped me; tortured and very likely killed me after satisfying their perverted cravings. I owe you once again."

"Yeah, I'm such a hell of a guy! Apart from the fact that if I hadn't insisted on letting the bastards loose on Black Ridge Pass, goddamn idealistic idiot that I am, they wouldn't have been able to attack us in the first place, leaving us high and dry at the arse end of nowhere. Instead of thanking me for coming to your rescue, you'd better slap me silly for my vulking stupidity. It very nearly was the end of us both."

Hawthorne shrugged. "Just so. But have you ever taken into consideration that it might have been your kind-heartedness, benevolence and sense of justice which attracted Gerald Tarrant to you? He wouldn't have wanted you otherwise, and I'm inclined to agree with him."

His vision blurring suspiciously, the warrior knight deemed it better to keep his trap shut for a change and busied himself with preparing a snack instead. After what had come to pass, neither of them was hungry, Keeping the arduous ride ahead of them in mind, he somehow brought himself to force down a cheese sandwich and a nutrition bar in order to stay in shape although the food tasted like sawdust in his mouth, but the adept declined politely, sticking to a second helping of tee. At first glance, he seemed to have recovered. A hint of colour had returned to his face, and his voice was calm and steady again. But for one knowing him well enough, it stuck out a mile that things were anything but in best order. There was a forlorn look in his dark, fathomless eyes that didn't bode well, didn't bode well at all.

Having finished his humble meal, Vryce quickly cleaned his mess kit with a handful of snow and stored it away for further use while trying very hard not to think about what would follow next. The very idea of Gerald sharing the bedding with him next to naked was threatening to bring his blood to a boil despite his battered state, but it couldn't be helped. Soaked through as they were, they would catch a nasty cold or worse if they didn't bow to the inevitable.

"Lie down and get some sleep, Vryce," Hawthorne's voice cut into his musings. "As you very well know, a head injury is nothing to be trifled with. Considering that I'd like to be on my own for a while, I can just as well stand watch."

"The hell you will! Have you lost your wits? You need to get out of your wet rags, and soon!"

A flash of defiance passed over the adept's comely features. "As I've already pointed out, I'm not a babe-in-arms. You'd better keep that in mind."

"Then don't behave like one, for God's sake!" Damien shot back. "Or like the spoiled brat I took you for when I first set eyes on you on Black Ridge Pass, for that matter. I grant you ten minutes for indulging your little bout of introspection. Ten minutes, Gerald. If you aren't under the blankets by then, I'm going to get you, and you won't like it."

When Hawthorne got up and stalked over to the camp fire in a huff, the warrior knight slipped into their tent. Gritting his teeth against the bite of the icy winter air only marginally kept at bay by the tarpaulin, he stripped down to his underwear and crawled into the nest he had made of their sleeping bags and every available dry blanket.

He wasn't really cross with Gerald. Whatever was going on in the adept's brilliant but twisted mind, he certainly had a point there. Foregoing keeping watch in turns was a questionable decision at the very best. The fae might have been tamed at long last, but there were still enough and to spare demonlings hunting the night in their never-ending search for prey who would find two unwary travellers a tasty midnight snack, indeed.

But as matters stood, they didn't have much of a choice. He wasn't a novice in braving high altitudes under less than savoury circumstances, a fact his long and arduous journey from Ganji-on-the-Cliffs to Jaggonath could testify to. But even an experienced traveller could misjudge a situation, especially when crossing the most treacherous of all mountain ranges. A mere two hours ago, he would have betted Tarrant's entire estate on a continuation of the heavy snowfall. But the wind had turned and freshened up considerably all of a sudden, and from what he had seen before closing the tent flap behind him, the weather promised to clear up. As delightful as the prospect of a dry ride might be, this meant a further decline in temperature, something he wasn't altogether keen on.

Anyway, after what had come to pass, Gerald and he could both do with a snatch of undisturbed sleep. Although his wound had stopped bleeding quite a while ago, it still hurt, and if he stayed awake all night, he'd be absolutely useless in the morning. As for the adept, there was no chance in hell that he would allow him to stand guard tonight, no matter what. They could only hope that his deplorable mare whom he had tethered as closely to the camp fire as she could tolerate would warn them of an approaching danger.

The allotted time had to be over now, but there was still no sign of his companion. Muttering a vicious curse under his breath, the warrior knight was just about getting up and making good on his word when Hawthorne stepped inside, his usually so light footfall uncharacteristically halting. If his mien was anything to go by, he wasn't any happier about this mess than Damien himself, but it was but a small consolation.

In order to grant him the illusion of privacy - and keep a modicum of his own dignity intact - Vryce turned away from him and squeezed his lids tightly shut, but nothing could protect him against his overactive imagination when he heard the creak of leather and the softer rustle of wool and silk. So very alluring images were appearing before his inner eye now, visions of flawless, olive-coloured skin, its texture like the finest silk, and of a veritable waterfall of raven black hair hanging all the way down to a pair of firm buttocks. Crap!

The object of his desire huddling under the covers at long last, even if making himself comfortable as far away from him as humanly possible without actually rolling off the bedding, didn't exactly have a calming effect on him. Vulking hell, he was neither a monk nor one of old Earth's saints but a normal man, with the healthy urges of a man, dammit! He'd give an arm and a leg if he could have Gerald only once, bury himself in his slender body to the hilt and screw them both into oblivion, but it couldn't be, however much he might wish otherwise.

Cursing the bulge tenting his briefs, the former priest drew several deep breath and tried to force himself to sleep, but it was to no avail. After counting nusheep had proved utterly unsuccessful, he resorted to reciting the Prophet's Prayer in his mind, a somewhat appropriate occupation under the given circumstances. He was just into the fifth repetition when the unmistakable sound of clattering teeth snapped him out of his anyway poor concentration.

For a moment he wavered, utterly at loss what to do. Gerald certainly wouldn't appreciate what he might classify as indecent advances, and understandably so. Whatever had been said about the need to share body heat, having a considerable boner pressed against the small of one's back out of the blue wasn't everybody's cup of tee. But then he simply couldn't bear it any longer. Throwing all caution to the wind, he spooned up behind the adept and wrapped his right arm around him.

Hawthorne tensed up but didn't draw back, presumably tolerating his touch for the sake of getting warm. After a few minutes, he stopped shivering, and a breathless silence descended on their tent. The very air seemed to become denser, and the moaning of the gnarled not pine trees which somehow managed to survive up here spoke of long suppressed desires and forbidden pleasures until the warrior knight thought he must vent some of the tension or explode.

Suddenly Gerald turned towards him, no more than a barely visible shadow in the nigh to absolute darkness. "In the miserable shack its owner dares to call 'Black Ridge Inn' I told you that many things have changed since the Hunter wrote his last letter," he whispered, his breath a warm flutter on Damien's cheek. "They have indeed, but others stayed the same. This is one of them."

At the very next moment a cold but so very soft mouth brushed against his own as gently as one of the snowflakes that had made their ride such a precarious endeavour. The former priest froze to utter motionlessness. A myriad of objections flashed up in his reeling mind, 'ifs' and 'mights' and 'we shouldn'ts', but as he felt the proof of Hawthorne's arousal hot and hard against his abdomen, they sank back into the bottomless abysses of his soul again. Then the adept's tongue parted his lips and commenced a thorough exploration of his oral cavity, and he stopped thinking altogether.

Whether their kiss was lasting a few seconds or a thousand years, he couldn't tell. Floating on a cloud of pure bliss, time lost any meaning to him, just as the loss of his vocation and his disorientation in a world which seemed to have passed him by. Nothing was of any importance whatsoever save the man in his arms and that his dreams would finally come true.

He was just about giving free rein to his desire when the plaintive howl of a mountain wolf penetrated his lust-induced daze, stopping him short as the sound triggered utterly uncalled-for memories of his encounter with the albino Amoril and his equally creepy pets. So much had happened since then. The pact with the Unnamed had broken for good when Tarrant had died on Mount Shaitan, just to be revived as a mere mortal by the Mother of the Iezu, but yet his new incarnation wasn't free to do as he pleased. As his latest bargain was forbidding him any connection to his past, he had already taken a considerable risk accepting his company.

Whatever could be said about him, the former Hunter wasn't given to indulging his whims. As he had made himself perfectly clear that he intended to keep their relations strictly businesslike come what may, his sudden change of mind was somewhat amazing, to put it mildly. The intricacies of psychology had never been one of Damien's hobby horses, but he was well aware that going through a traumatic event could cause strange behavioural abnormalities. As much as he might wish to seize the opportunity and to hell with the consequences, he just couldn't account for it. Not without asking a few questions first. "Listen, Gerald," he said gently. "You got a nasty shock today. Don't think me nosy, but I can't help but wondering why you took the attack so badly. I wouldn't have expected this of you, not with regard to your... history."

The adept sighed softly. "I appreciate your concern. Honestly. But kindly don't pester me about this unpleasant topic anymore. Not tonight. Suffice to say that I had my reasons for reacting the way I did and that what you call my 'history' was part and parcel of problem."

"Done. But are you absolutely sure that you want to go on? I don't think I can stop in the middle of things, if you know what I mean."

"You won't have to. After what has come to pass today, I am sure. Very. When I saw you laying there in the snow, so utterly still, I thought I had lost you. It sounds absurdly pathetic, but it felt as if a part of me had died with you. I froze, allowed them to drag me off my horse like a damned coward. Nothing like it has happened to me ever before, no matter how dire the circumstances. Then that sick bastard tried to force himself on me. You have to understand that his body is still virgin, Vryce. The mere idea that he'd be the first when it should have been you by all rights..."

The adept trailed off, and a violent shiver passed through his wiry frame. His heart hammering, Damien pulled him in his arms again and placed a kiss on his forehead. "Don't give it another thought, beloved," he choked out past the lump in his throat. "It's over. The sons of a bitch are already in hell, but we're alive. And together, if you'll have me."

"Yes, I will. By all appearances, there seems to be no way around it, anyway," Hawthorne added with a trace of his usual wry humour. "And now I'd rather you made me forget the feel of his filthy fingers on me."

"I'd like nothing better than that, but don't we need, well, some kind of lubricant? I don't want to hurt you."

Gerald chuckled. "There's a flask of sweet not almond oil in my pack. It was meant to be for skincare purposes, but should do nicely."

As if in a trance, the warrior knight rummaged around in the pack until he found the tiny bottle. After removing the stopper, he poured a generous amount of the faintly nutty smelling liquid onto his palm, warmed it a bit by rubbing his hands together and smoothed it over his erect shaft. Touching himself kindled the fire in his loins even further, and he was more than ready when Hawthorne pulled him on top of him with a low, wistful sigh.

Damien could hardly see his hand before his eyes, but he could feel his lover's body opening for him without any resistance whatsoever despite the lack of preparation and the shudder passing through him with his every thrust, could hear his breathing becoming heavier, deeper, just to speed up to short, rapid gasps when he continued to move at a slow but steady pace.

Aching to give as much pleasure as possible, he shifted his weight to the left side, wrapped his slippery hand around Hawthorne's erection and slid it up and down in perfect unison with the rhythmic motion of his hips, but slender fingers on his wrist stopped him short. "Don't," the former Hunter panted forth. "It isn't necessary. Oh God, Vryce, this feels so good. You should really give it a try one day."

Maybe he would. But for now, he was much more interested in Gerald's internal muscles gripping him like a vice until the friction became nigh to unbearably pleasant and the man's low, half-stifled whimpers. Rapidly approaching the point of no return, he sped up, thrust his pelvis back and forth as hard and fast as he could without giving a shit anymore for eventual nocturnal molesters. The adept was moving with him now, digging his finger nails into his buttocks and urging him on in a wordless plea for more. Although he wouldn't have thought it possible a few seconds ago, the hot channel giving him so much pleasure contracted around his cock even further, tighter than a woman could have ever been. Then Hawthorne came undone beneath him, moaning and jerking in the throes of passion, and it was all it took to catapult him over the edge, as well.

Much later, when their breath had evened out and their hearts were beating at a measured pace again, the adept traced a leisurely line from his right temple to the tip of his chin. "As strange as it might sound, we've never talked about our exact destination so far," he whispered. "Where do you want to go once you're back in your homeland? Granted that we'll come out of this wilderness alive and in one piece."

"If you don't mind, I thought we could cross the Serpent and pay a visit to my family. My parents are both dead, but my brother Aaron and my sister-in-law Marina live not far from Ganji-on-the-Cliffs, along with their four little hellions. At least this was the count when I received their last letter. At the rate they're reproducing the Vryce genes, it could be outdated by now."

Damien heaved a sigh. "They haven't heard from me in ages, presumably suppose me dead. Aaron and I... we had our differences in the past. Like my mother, may God rest her soul, he's a devout follower of the deity Yoshti. I tried to talk him out of it, more than once, actually, but he's too headstrong for his own good."

"I see. What a piece of luck that it doesn't run in the family," the adept retorted drily. "Honestly, Vryce, you of all people shouldn't complain about another man's stubbornness. Hypocrisy doesn't suit you."

"You're the one to talk! It wasn't I who... oh shit, forget about it. But what do you think about it? If you're willing to put up with a bunch of noisy children turning the whole house up and down for a while, I'd really like you to meet Mari and Aaron."

Hawthorne's breath hitched in his throat, and Damien cursed himself three times a fool for forgetting that his lover wasn't a stranger to the trials and joys of parenthood. But when the adept spoke, his voice was perfectly composed. "I think I can manage," he said quietly. "But what will you tell them about us? That I'm one of your brothers in faith? A dear friend?"

"Cut the crap, Gerald! You're the man I want to grow old with, and they damn well have to accept it. And they will, don't you worry about it. As far as I know, the priests of Yoshti don't frown upon same sex relationships, and even if they did, I wouldn't give a shit for their opinion. Come to think of it, hearing of our romantic attachment will finally stall Aaron's constant nagging that I should find myself a wife and settle down, a great side benefit, I dare say. He... what the heck...?"

Damien cut himself short in mid-sentence when the unmistakable sound of galloping hooves reached his ears, followed by a loud whinny. His own mare responded to the call, got fidgety, and he quickly wrapped himself in one of the blankets and slipped into his shoes. He was loth to leave his snug spot at Hawthorne's side, but losing their last animal didn't bear thinking about.

Poking his head out of their tent, a broad grin spread over the warrior knight's face. Here was the missing stallion, unharmed and still carrying his master's belongings. Thank goodness unhorses were no less gregarious in nature than their terrestrial equivalent. There was no chance in hell that he could squeeze his bulk into Gerald's clothes, but at least they were in possession of a mount each now and could distribute their gear according to their weight. Even if their attackers' nags had run off into the wilderness never to be seen again, their chances had just risen considerably, however bad the weather might become.

After unsaddling the stallion, he tethered him next to his mare and treated both of them to a nucorn cob from his dwindling supplies along with a comforting pat on the back. Then he rushed back to their love nest, looking forward to crawling under the covers again. And to other things waiting for him inside.

Apparently, the adept's thoughts were going into roughly the same direction. "You're cold, Vryce. If you aren't altogether adverse to it, I could try to warm you up," he breathed, shooting him an inviting look from under his long lashes that left no doubt about the way the man intended to raise his body temperature. "We don't want you to catch pneumonia, do we?"

Damien didn't have to think twice. Considering that they would have to brave the icy passes of the Northern Dividers tomorrow, they'd better catch some sleep. Stumbling around in daze due to the lack of a decent night's rest could very well spell disaster in such a dangerous terrain, and he wasn't in the least inclined to snuff it, not to mention witnessing Gerald falling to his death. The mere though was enough and to spare to freeze the marrow in his bones. But spending half an hour on an encore of the pleasant activities that had given him the most mind-blowing orgasm of his life certainly wouldn't make much of a difference, would it?

He was barely back in the tangled mess of blankets and sleeping bags when Hawthorne straddled him and lowered himself on his cock without further ado, engulfing him in tight, oiled heat once again. For a short moment his thoughts flashed back to their horses, and he prayed that they'd be all right in the morning. But then the adept started to roll his hips in slow, tantalizing circles, and the world blanked out.


End file.
